9th Wonder
by Axjion
Summary: They aren't just comic books, a child's play thing, stories we use to bemuse ourselves. Isaac's power was more than that. To paint the future. To give us faith in what we can do about what is to come in our darkest hour. Were you trying to warn us?
1. Prologue: The Interrogation

**Prologue : The Interrogation**

**October 31, 2012 :: 9:19pm :: New Guantanamo Military Prison, Arlington, Virginia, USA**

A splash of freezing water hits each of their faces and they're alive again. Each of the six captives' hearts are beating ferociously against their chests and it's all they can do to maintain them from bursting through. Pain is etched across their faces, calling them, coaxing them back into unconsciousness, and three of the six almost give in although none are foolish enough to do so.

A teenage boy shrieks loudly as a man in horn-rimmed glasses slaps him square across the cheek with the handle of his pistol. Behind the lenses of his glasses, the six can tell he's at a dark point: a loss of self, of sanity, of control. The man - his fine suit covered in grime and filth, his white collar stained with blood and sweat, his pants torn and singed, his weapon trembling in his veteran hands - is at a loss of hope.

In his temporary state, flooded over with emotions and weaknesses uncharacteristic to himself, he raises his weapon further back and higher than before. A sinister grin overcomes his already dangerous face and an unforgiving darkness emanates from his eyes. He strikes forcefully toward the teenage boy again.

"Wait," another man, though much younger, intervenes, catching the hand of the middle-aged assailant. "Not even Parkman can get anything out of them if you knock them out."

For a moment, they stare each other in the eyes, their glares fighting one another, distrustful. Suddenly the man in the horn-rimmed glasses with little force shakes his arm free of the younger man's grip. He coughs and immediately removes his attention from the eyes battling his, replacing them on the floor embarrassedly, ashamedly.

"You're right," he concedes, his stressed voice cracking pathetically. "So what do you propose?"

This time a woman's voice intervenes. "A gentler touch, Noah."

The two men jerk their heads toward the cell door, left ajar, though their captives don't dare look. They recognize her voice well. They already know who she is: the one with the power of pain at her fingertips.

Noah Bennet - the man in the horn-rimmed glasses - backs away, the angry lines in his forehead and sleepy stretches of his crow's feet contort themselves, changing the previous moments weakness and desperation into shock and awe. It was unbecoming of him at one point in his life; weakness and desperation, shock and awe, and somehow he feels this, so he quickly backs away from the captives. The younger man however stretches a rekindled smile across his face, eyes wide open in the flames of interest.

"Thought you'd never join us," the younger man can barely contain his enthusiasm as he starts toward the woman.

"Never send a man to do a woman's job," she delivers with a condescending laugh, her sharp blue eyes appraising the two men. She slicks back a single disobedient strand of her long blonde hair into a tight, neat bun before turning her chin up. "I'll be taking over from here, Luke," she explains, taking off her gloves as she shoves past the now-blushing younger man, ignoring him, her high-heeled footsteps clashing harshly against the solid stone floor.

The six captives look upward, studying every inch of her face in contempt. One, a tiny kindergartener, lets out a piercing yelp and begins to cry and a redhead girl attends to him. Another, a college student in her mid-twenties, attends to the gunshot wound of an Indian man. In the far corner of the room, a curly-haired teen sits defeatedly. The teenage boy, eye swollen shut and still on his hands and knees, tries to afford himself the strength to raise himself but drops back to the ground when the blonde woman ends her trek before him.

"This him? Is he the one?" She throws her inquiry into the thick air asking no one in particular.

"We think he is," Bennet answers immediately, the muscles in his face twitching nervously.

"Think so? That's not good enough."

"Barbara-"

"Like I said. 'Never send a man...'" She grabs the teenager by his sleeve and helps him to his feet and he doesn't struggle. Bennet doesn't hesitate nor struggle under her gaze either, speeding forward to hold back and control the boy. "Are you him? Are you Rebel?"

"No," he rebounds with powerful fervor, "and I'll never give him up to you."

Placing her ungloved hand inches from his face, she avows "Tell me where he is or I'll make you and all your friends feel pain beyond your imagination."

With this, he spits in her face. "Never."

Clawing the saliva from her face and with a twisted smirk, half-disgusted, half-intrigued, she retaliates with just the touch of her naked hand on his skin. He reacts, screaming, arms flailing violently, sweat seeping from his pores. His cries of terror incite fear in the other captives, who quickly slide to the back wall, attempting to put distance between themselves and the blonde woman named Barbara; the witch with misery in her hands.

"Stop it!" The redhead captive pleads aloud as she shelters the kindergartener from the despicable sight within her bosom. A single tear runs down her cheek.

"Leave him alone! He's just a kid!" The Indian captive joins.

The curly-haired teen stands up and rushes forward. In the corner of his eye, he can see the disapproval of the other captives: their pleading stares, their shaking heads, tear-soaked cheeks and even a hand reach out calling for his retreat. _Don't do this._

"Let him go. It's me you want. I'm Rebel."

Barbara frowns, disconcerted with losing an opportunity for torture, for pain. "Let him go."

This time Bennet hesitates. Did he simply not hear her to heed her order or is he weighing his options? Momentarily, he obeys, releasing his grip on the teenage boy who falls back to his knees, back into the puddle of his own blood and sweat covering the floor.

"Tell us everything you know, Micah," Barbara nods to the curly-haired teen accusingly, replacing her silk gloves onto her small hands. "And start at the beginning."


	2. The Ball Drops

**Volume 6: Flashback**

**Episode 1: The Ball Drops**

**December 31, 2011 :: 11:57pm :: Time Square, New York City, NY, USA**

The December wind is harsh, wipping my curly hair and gnawing through my hand-woven woolen gloves and thick winter jacket. Having spent most of my life in California, having lived here only for two years now, I'm not at all accustomed to this fearsome cold and post-Christmas snow. In fact, I'd never seen snow until I came here. And it's so heavy and relentless. Inches upon inches of the stuff, sleeping atop parked cars, crowding sidewalks and alleyways, reducing the well-trodden streets and boulevards of New York City into immaneuverable billows of white, black and gray.

And as if the subpar temperatures and questionable weather aren't enough, there are the tons and tons of denizens. The countless people. Hundreds. Thousands. In every direction. Everywhere I go. Everywhere I turn. I'd visited this city only once before moving here but I didn't pay attention then. Never have I been in the company of so many people. Never have I seen so much snow.

But most of all, never have I been so impatient, as I stand silently among the crowd with my cousins Damon and Monica, waiting for their grandmother - "Nana," they call her - to show up. It's three minutes to midnight in the middle of Time Square and if she doesn't arrive soon, she'll miss it.

She can't miss it, the dropping of the ball on New Year's Eve. The signification of the start of a brand new year, the start of new promises, dreams, of new resolutions. It's important to be with family now, and I want all of them here.

After all, Monica, Nana, even Damon; they're all the family I have left.

A voice still booms over the chattering crowd shaking me to my senses. The President, Nathan Petrelli, stands proudly in regal grandeur as he completes his final speech, welcoming the new year with open arms and reminding the populace to beware the "terrorist menace."

"It's bull crap," Damon attacks, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What?" I say.

"Everything he says. Don't listen to him. Your kind-" Damon stops himself and rephrases, "-you're not a terrorist. Neither of you. You're the best people I know."

I shrug in response.

"Ten," the full crowd roars whole-heartedly. "Nine," less holler. "Eight," even less scream. "Seven," less than half the crowd says this time.

The voices of the crowd, depleting with every count, seem to catch Monica's attention too. She elbows me in the side and lifts a finger upward to the sky. My eyes trail without discretion. High, in a neighboring building, an entire floor has burst into flames.

"Six. Five." Shatters of glass rain from the sky while pedestrians in the street run for cover in a panicked hurry. "Four. Three." I turn to head for cover too but Monica grabs my arm and points again.

This time my eyes meet another sight. Accompanying large shards of broken glass which deflect the luminescence of the festive city streets below is a body plummeting helplessly through the air, a body completely engulfed in fire.

No one counts the last two seconds, but I can still hear them ring in every corner of my mind. The whole scene is but a second from disaster. _Two. _I try to close my eyes but fail._ One. _She hits the ground. Yes, she. A woman. Through the scurrying crowd, Secret Service agents flocking around the street, moving around the President swiftly and getting him away from the dangerous scene, I can see the mangled body of a woman. Shards of glass are lodged in her abdomen, her legs, her temple, lacerations and bruises cover her beaten body and her golden hair is streaked crimson with fresh blood.

_Happy New Year._

All eyes are unmoving, steady on the woman laying dead in the city street. No one dares budge. The hope that someone, anyone, could have survived such a fall is lost to the people of this city. Pessimists? Realists? They just stare, inaudible, unchanging, in a brief second that never ends.

Then it happens again. _Why does this keep happening? _I can barely understand it, but it begins here every time. The ferris wheel in 2007. The Eiffel Tower in 2009. The Space Needle in Seattle just last year. It is a moment transfixed in time, a fact that happens regardless in time and space. An inevitability. We've been calling it the one true axiom in history. And I can all but manage to stand there in the eerie silence.

The mangled woman, her limbs broken and irreparable, bones jutting out every which way, sits up and looks directly into the nearest camera. In a frantic hurry, she pops bones back into place and twists limbs into correct position like bottle caps. Glass shards drop from her body as her wounds close and vanish and smooth pink skin reemerges. Next, she rolls, patting out her smoldering clothes and hair, her blackened skin beneath them slowly tinting from a charcoal black to a nude tan.

It's been happening for four years now. The day they find out about us. And every time Hiro and I, Sparrow, Abigail, Peter and Mohinder try to stop it, it happens again. Always with the girl - the cheeleader - falling to a false death. Always with a camera crew to catch her lifeless body springing back to action. The war is always to follow. The one between them and us fashioned by President Petrelli. The war in which we lose. In which we lose everything.

_Why does this keep happening?_

As swiftly as the moment that stopped time itself comes, it passes. Deafening screams chime together and chorus in the midnight air. Bystanders who didn't make it out of the way of the falling debris in time send their aches and agonies into the midnight chorus, pulling glass and metal shrapnel from their legs and arms, dripping more crimson blood into the freshly-fallen snow. Over and over again. More blood. More snow. Everything is crimson. Crimson and white.

Shaking myself into reality, I hear Monica and Damon calling from behind me, desperate suggestion in their tone as they usher me to hurry and leave. To follow them to safety.

I turn around, prepared to rush to my cousins when Nana appears before me. A stern grimace is engraved deeply in her penciled-in eyebrows accompanied by an explosion of rouge on her delicate, wrinkled cheeks. She wears her usual gaudity of trinkets and wise, knowing eyes, yet something about her feels different. It is as if, despite so many years already being beneath her, she is a little more mature. Wiser. Perhaps older.

"Take this," she doesn't order nor suggest, but a faint hint of persuasion in her Cajun drawl.

I grab the book from her hands without looking at it. At the moment, I'm giving anything to get me and her out of harm's way, military gunmen and secret servicemen emptying into the streets which are hastily evacuating of their civilian pedestrians. "We've gotta get outta here!"

Nana shakes her head and runs a hand through her silver hair. "Not you," Nana jogs away toward Damon and Monica, still yelling persuasions back to me. "Start right where you left off. Page 42. Can't miss it."

She grabs Damon by the arm and he looks back to me and rebounds, following her. Monica doesn't run until I'm at her side. For a minute we sprint after them as they chase the others fleeing the square, only the brash camera crews and reckless onlookers left in our tracks, observing what will likely be declared as a terrorist attempt to bring down another building. All attempts to watch history being made.

Monica and I are seconds away from catching up to Nana when she vanishes. She doesn't turn a sharp corner. She doesn't, by Yankee cliché, fall into an open manhole or get whisked away by a figure in the night. Nana plainly disappears into thin air. It happens as quickly as she appeared alone before me, only with her disappearance she seems to have taken Damon with her.

Monica and I slide to a halt, trapping each others' gazes in disbelief. The realization catches up to me seconds later.

"You never told me Nana had an ability too." I can feel my heart jump in my chest at the enunciation of the word 'ability.' A fear consumes me, a worry about how the war will pan out this time. I remember the images vividly in my mind, haunted by the deaths that never happened but always happen, the things we were able to prevent time and time again. Ando. Tracy. West. Bennet. Claire.

_Monica._

"I didn't know, Micah." Monica's voice brings me to reality again, her head falling to her chest. She puts a hand to her forehead, concentration or contemplation taking over her. Or both.

She takes my hand and we're off again, heading into the nearest building, a fast-food restaurant filled with other New Year's Eve refugees. The refugees whisper amongst themselves, paying us no mind. With my body recuperating from the adrenaline rush, I take a seat nearest the window.

"What's that in your hand?" Monica asks.

I toss the book onto the table. It's a comic book with a purple cover, the title Saint Joan in bold print is emblazoned across the top. One of my favorite editions of 9th Wonders, a collection I have back home.

"Nana gave it to me right before..." I trail off, trying to make logical sense of it all but coming up blank. _If she had this power all along, why hadn't she helped in the other wars_? Monica focuses only on me, waiting for me to continue. "Well, anyway. I wonder why she brought me this."

Monica takes a seat across from me and lowers her voice. "For the last time, Micah. I'm not Saint Joan. Last time I tried to be a hero, I ended up getting your mom killed. I almost got myself killed too in the process."

A scene flashes before my eyes. My father's death spins and revolves until I find myself on Nana's doorstep in New Orleans, my mother leaving my side. My helping Monica discover her ability, adoptive muscle memory, spirals and convolutes until I find my father's last token to me gone, stolen by Damon's bullies. Waiting on the empty street in the heat of the night while Monica attempts to regain my father's medal from the thieves disintegrates and dissipates into Monica pushing me away from a burning building, my mom still within. The illusion turns to darkness right before an explosion. I can still hear it as if it were happening now. I shut my eyes tightly.

"My mom would've wanted both of us to use these powers for good."

"Your mom would've wanted both of us to live long and prosper after what she did for us."

I ignore her, flipping through to the page Nana suggested to me. I arrive, and Monica looks away angrily.

I'm so zealous to see what's on page 42, I don't read the story at all. I just scan the panels. The first panel of the comic shows a hooded figure, Saint Joan, standing on a long-vacated dock. She is speaking with a mysterious old lady with penciled-in eyebrows in dramatic arcs, a flat nose that looks almost pressed, ironed onto her face and bedizened with jewels and beads of many vibrant hues. Saint Joan gives the old woman a book in the second panel and walks off in the third. The old lady stands silently in the fourth and appears to be in an entirely different place in the fifth; people are running away from something while everything - the buildings, the streets - is painted in crimson and white.

But the next three panels are the ones that catch my attention. In the sixth panel, the old lady - Nana - hands the book to a curly-haired teen - me. In the seventh, we make an escape. In the eighth, Nana and Damon disappear.

I stand up, spurning with incredulity, my chair falling on the floor behind me. I have always known and worded, to Monica's dismay, that she is Saint Joan. But this is the first time I've had proof. And I've lived these last five years eight times. Yet this - this is something that's never happened.

I look at the following page. I see Monica and myself rushing into the restaurant, taking seats, my reading the comic, my standing and toppling the chair.

I arrive at the panel that signifies our current position in time and before I read the words on the page, my lips open and my mouth and my speech bubble harmonize in unison.

"It's true! You're Saint Joan!"

"Shush," Monica quiets me, lifting a finger to her mouth and looking around to ensure that no one has heard my outburst.

I give her the comic and show her the pages I've just read. For a minute she skims, her eyes widening with every panel.

"What does this mean?"

As if reading my next line as it comes, or maybe bound by a force greater than myself, my lips move again, harmonizing once more with my character's speech bubble. "It means everything's about to change. It means we must find Hiro."

The human body is a miraculous thing. Just when I think my adrenaline is all used up, my very core fatigued, a new rush spills into my veins washing over me and I feel a surge of confidence. Indestructible. Unconquerable. Alas, maybe it is conceit.

I swipe my hair from my eyes, rise to my feet and remove a cell phone from my pocket, a thought racing across my mind. _Tell them. Tell them all._

"Who's Hiro?" asks a puzzled-faced Monica. I reply only by snatching the comic from her hand and returning the phone to my pocket. I don't want to smile - to get my hopes up - but I can feel the muscles in my cheeks betray my mind. With a grin, I head to the door. "Who's Hiro?" she demands anew.

Eagerly, I push some New Year's Eve refugees away from the door and squeeze through others, plowing my way throw snow and blood-covered refugees to the main entrance and through the threshold.

Monica still sits at the table next to the window. I knock on the tempered glass, signaling her to follow. She mouths something that looks disapproving, vulgar, and slams her fist on the table before crossing her arms. I bang harder. She shakes her head.

After a minute of continued banging and putting the comic against the window pointing at it excitedly, she gives in and rushes outside after me.

"I've gotta be crazy doing this. Following you into danger," and she stresses her last word, "_again."_

"Come on! Follow me!" I point to the comic and turn to run again.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the square," I order. "It's what we're supposed to do."

"What does that even mean?"

"Just follow me!" I point to the comic again and set off instantly, Monica at my side, my mind sans thought as my legs carry me back toward Time Square, toward the chaos. Some of the braver camera crews and bystanders from earlier are now fleeing, an undeniable terror permanent across their visages as we pass them, my mild frame dodging them and my dark eyes weaving through their anguished expressions as they flee without regard for whomever may be in their way.

Rounding the corner, I see several Secret Servicemen laying bloodied across the square, their guns melted or lit ablaze, their bodies still fuming spilling crimson into the snow. A young man throws his hand out forcefully. A wave of energy emits from it, bearing toward a fallen man - President Petrelli - who is being helped back off the ground by a third man. I pull Monica back behind a black stretch limo where the last few reckless cameramen capture the happening before them in safety, and crouch closely to the ground.

"You need to see this. This is where Luke Campbell attacks the President and Claire and Peter try to stop him. He's the one who frames everyone like us. He's the one who pins us as dangerous."

I force Monica to a laying position before she can open her mouth to retaliate. On our stomachs and peering beneath the car, we focus on the events in the square.

Not giving up the fight in himself, Peter throws a hand over President Petrelli, his last defense, as the President himself gasps. Claire - the cheerleade, the girl who always falls - comes running into the scene, throwing herself in front of them, taking the full intensity of the blow. Her body sizzles aloud, her skin molting and bubbling up, then steaming, but she doesn't even squint.

She spins around, her back to us as we lay. Like before, her wounds, still bubbling and smoking, begin to repair themselves.

The surprise on Monica's face is uncanny. She hasn't seen this many of us in one place. She hasn't seen what these abilities can do in the wrong hands.

"He should be here soon," I contest.

"Who?"

"Hiro. He and Ando save them right before Luke attacks Sylar."

"You're not making any sense."

"Not yet. When they get here, we move."

Luke advances on Claire and Peter who shelter President Petrelli behind them. He laughs and says something that makes Claire and Peter look at each other and then look to the President, but I can't make out what's being said; I'm out of earshot. For a moment the four hesitate, their eyes fixed upon each other, their body languages defensive, daring one another to make the first move.

On the opposite side of the square, something reflects in the distance temporarily blinding me. Several more black vehicles appear, unmarked, dozens of people sliding out of them, suited for war. The sound of loaded guns rings in staccato clicks through the air.

"Put 'em up," a clear order is augmented by a megaphone.

Decidedly, Luke puts his hands above his head, backing away slowly, never throwing a glance to the many armed officials behind him. He gives a slight nod to President Petrelli, followed by a winning smile.

Peter catches the nod and smile just in time, tackling Claire out of the way as Luke dives, channeling his ability at a nearby street lamp. The lamp begins a quick descent toward Claire and Peter. President Petrelli attempts an escape, barreling right, into the nearest building, then the bullets begin. Thick, heavy, in endless rounds. Shot after shot after shot.

While Luke boldly crawls the street to safety, Claire stands, shielding Peter from the barrage of bullets. They hit her, penetrate her, collide with her, but neiter scar nor wound her, her body acting as an immoral shield sparing him a cruel fate, though few shots do travel through her left hand, her abdomen and her right ear, nearly rendering her efforts in vain.

Instantaneously, two men appear behind them, materializing from, as it were, thin air. The shorter of the two is equipped with a long, sheathed sword, the handle of which bears a strange insignia, like a broken double helix. His long hair runs in a tight ponytail down his back, which in turn is covered with a heavy cloak that hangs just above his ankles.

"The short one in the cloak, that's Hiro." I stand up and dust the snow from the front of my body, my gloved hands frostbitten. "Hiro! Ando!" I wave my hands over my head in an effort to catch their attention.

Ando, the taller of the two, throws a glance over his shoulder just before Hiro grabs everyone and disappears in a flash of red light, taking Peter, Claire and Ando with him.

Monica slowly rises to her hands and knees, then, wary of the last few rounds of bullets zipping through the air, to her feet. She looks me up and down, lost in thought, trying to figure me out. I put a finger to my lip, hushing her impending questions by telling her to wait but the camera crew beside us word her thoughts for her.

"What do you make of that, Jack?" An aged, tired man says to the heavyset brunette man holding the camera as a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.

"I dunno," Jack replies, turning the camera from the square, toward a blonde, freckled reporter turned stone and awe-stricken.

"What about you, Audrey?" He asks the blonde. She shakes her head.

"There's nothing I can add to that," she doesn't look into the camera at all, but still stares at the empty strip of land where the four people stood moments ago before evaporating into thin air.

The man turns the camera to Monica, "What about you, ma'am? How would you describe what just happened? How are you feeling?"

"Sorry," I say, walking over to the camera, not giving him the chance to turn it on me. "But it's better this way." I touch the camera, putting my hand on its cold metal frame, and force a command to it from my mind. _I need you to turn off_, I think. The red recording light winks twice before blinking out, and not a moment too soon, as Hiro materializes behind me, grabbing me and Monica. The fury in his dark, beady eyes is undeniable. I open my mouth in defense but we're already gone, my body spiraling out of control, my senses leaving me, and next all I see is black.


	3. It Always Happens

**Episode 2: It Always Happens**

**January 1, 2012 :: 12:45am :: A fast-food chain, New York City, NY, USA**

I feel a sudden jolt of electricity, a vision flashes before my eyes, or rather, is implanted in my mind. I'm watching the earth safely from the vacuum of space as the cries of millions ring out at once, weaving and intertwining into a melody. The earth itself glows and flashes brightly and blindingly. It is as if the planet is morphing into a sun. It flashes brighter and brighter with intensity i have never fathomed light could produce. Pulsating, penetrating, impossible light. Then, it explodes, sending whole continents across the galaxy, pushing neighboring Venus and Mars out of orbit, smithing the moon into microscopic pieces; bread crumbs on the table cloth of te universe. Everything that is, that was, that ever could be, shoots across the stars in every direction. Every sound rings out in every corner, the planet itself is crying before silence finally falls. An infinite silence. The explosion is so scalar and surreal and graphic that when I come to, sliding across a stone floor with Monica following behind me, I vomit.

The scene of snow and blood, crimson and white, is completely gone, repainted with glass windows and stone columns and old canvases. The city streets adorned with festive banners, littered with celebratory confetti, are no longer what surround me. Instead, as I lift myself up by my hands still weak from frostbite, coughing forcefully, I am surrounded by people hiding in the shadows of a candlelit room.

There are Claire and Peter from before. Claire is sitting alone on a small loveseat, her legs crossed, but her leg kicking impatiently. She hops from her seat upon laying her eyes on me. Peter is standing next to a wirey, butterscotch-skinned man in a white lab coat I know to be Dr. Suresh. Across from them, lining a staircase, Ando speaks with Noah Bennet. They only break their dialogue to trap me in their eyes with powerful intensity.

It is Hiro however, usually docile and endearing, who reacts with the greatest hostility, grabbing me by the coat collar and lifting me to my feet.

"Why'd you call us all here? _You_ weren't supposed to be there."

Monica comes to my rescue, pushing him off of me and putting herself between us.

"It's okay. Hes a friend." I tell her.

"Some friend." She doesn't let her guard down.

"He knows what happens if we intervene in events that we weren't part of the first time," Peter explains to Monica. "Things we can't reverse."

"I had a good reason," I attack, but my words have the opposite intended affect, causing uproar in the room.

"_He's bound to get us all killed_," one voice cries. "_His actions could have months of repercussions_!" booms another. "_We'll end up just like Tracy if he keeps this up_," warns a third.

"Now, now, now," Ando hushes the audience, snapping his fingers producing sparks of red lightning from his fingertips, temporarily lighting up the dark room while putting the dim candles to shame.

"He hasn't let us down before. Let's at least hear him out before we throw him under the bus," Bennet, craftier and more cunning with his words, finishes for Ando.

All eyes are on me. I hate that sort of thing. I prefer not to be the focal point in the room, the center of attention. I prefer to be the guy in the crowd, blending into everyone else. Nameless and unnoticed.

Despite my stage-fright, I proceed eagerly. "I have something I think you should see."

"We've seen enough of the future by now to know that _this always happens_," Hiro says calmly. "You know as well as I do what could have happened. What do you have to say for yourself?

I stammer, "I-I..." then rephrase, "Well, I think..." Hiro backs away, waving his hand to the others, issuing them an order to leave while I take a moment to collect and organize my thoughts. "What if I told you we could do something about it this time? What if I told you we could save the world?"

Hiro stops dead in his tracks, while a few others turn their heads and focus again on me. Their expressions aren't the kind I hope for; their faces aren't painted with honest intrigue and earnest enthusiasm. Most seem shocked and angry. Most seem tired. Of me. Of my hope to change what happens. My need.

Hiro's hand reaches up and behind, quivering over the handle of his sword, but he relapses. His hand falling to his side, he faces me again. His face is beet red and his eyes bulge to exponential proportions. Both are no sight compared to the deep vein pulsating in his forehead, ready to break open his skull.

_I'd better choose my next words wisely, _I think, but all I can muster up is a feeble "We can change it."

"It keeps happening. Claire keeps falling. We go back to save her so that none if it ever happens and it just happens again. Same person, different place, different time. The event is on a loop."

"And Isaac's paintings were part of the loop! They stopped coming true!"

"What's your point?"

"I thought you'd like to know this came true today," I take the edition of 9th Wonders from my pocket, revealing the Saint Joan edition.

I open to page 42 and hand the comic to Hiro while Ando and Bennet gather around him. Taking a thin pair of silver eyeglasses from his cloak pocket and pushing them onto his nose with his index finger, he scans the page.

"Impossible," he says after a while skeptically. "You were at Time Square? You probably just made these things happen." He doesn't even turn the page before shoving the book back in my arms.

"Some of us have lives to get back to and families to say goodbye to before the war begins," he throws at me coldly. "You too should be spending time with yours before it's too late. So stop wasting our time."

A few of the onlookers grumble and spit curses under their breath. This time Bennet gives the order to leave and the others cooperate without second thought, heading out the door.

Hiro stops, grabbing Ando, and offers a tip of advice. "The war always happens and no one can prevent it. Not me, not Isaac and not you, Micah."

"You're right. I can't do it. Not alone."

"Well, then. If you must play these games, use your people and leave us out of it. You lead Libertad, Rebel, or did you forget?". With that Hiro and Ando disappear.

I cannot believe how everyone else has acted about this. Skeptical; cruel and pessimistic and without the slightest ounce of faith.

"I hate skeptics. What are we living for really? What are we living for if we have no faith that we can change everything?"

Monica pulls me close, into a tight hug, her head resting on my shoulder. I'm as tall as she is now. I've grown from the scrawny, broken boy she met five years ago trying to hold on to pieces of his mother and father, into a scrawny, broken seventeen-year-old trying to save the world.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

"Your friends all seem so set on all of this happening. So, why are you trying so hard to change it?" Monica looks deep into my eyes.

I shrug. I don't know how to respond. "I just wanted to be a hero," I lie.

"You don't need to be a hero for anyone."

I issue her a blank smile but all I can think of is saving everyone. Monica is the last bit of family I have, and we've grown close over the years. And it's just as Hiro said. It always happens.

"You're right," I lie again. "Let's just go home."

But she's wrong. It always happens. She always dies. Always on the first day of the war. I know I have to save her. Time's running out. I only have 9 days.

I vow to myself that this time I save Monica, then, save the world.

_Whatever it takes_.


End file.
